


In the Morning After the Night

by zillah1199



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Possible Dub-Con, Secret Identity, Sleepy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 20:04:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5346851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zillah1199/pseuds/zillah1199
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders visits Fenris while he sleeps.</p>
<p>For this prompt http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/11381.html?thread=45669493#t45669493</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Morning After the Night

"And in the morning after the night  
I fall in love with the light" (The Orchids, Psychic TV)

Fenris didn't usually remember his dreams. That was for the best, really. The life of a former slave didn't make for the sweetest of nighttime fancies. But lately he'd been having a sort of recurring dream, an odd dream.

He'd be on a bed. His bed? Maybe. He wasn't sure. He'd be blindfolded and bound. Naked. The sort of thing that should make him panic. Struggle. Phase himself free. Yet there was no feeling of fear. He'd sense another presence, the awareness of someone else in the room, but he was calm. Accepting. Whatever was going to happen, would happen. Maybe he was drugged. Or enthralled. It just didn't seem to matter.

Then came the hands. Resting gently on his chest. Running lightly down his sides. Cupping the side of his face. He'd find himself turned onto his stomach and the hands would trace the lines on his back, fingertips following the swirls of his markings. Softly, not causing any pain, not tickling, just touching. Then the movements would become firmer. Working into his muscles. Digging into aches and pains. Loosening knots that went back as far as Fenris could remember. Kneading him until he all but melted. Just his back, at first, though eventually the dreams evolved into a full body massage. Soothing. Blissful. It was a good dream. He didn't have it often, but when he did, he always woke up relaxed, as though he'd somehow dreamt his tension away.

Strange, but not unpleasant. Not unpleasant at all.

Last night was different. A slight variation. The massage, of course, but then the softest of touches teasing his thighs, his stomach. He felt himself growing hard. The hand paused, questioningly, just besides his erection.

He heard himself whisper: “Yes.” 

The hand began to stroke him, gently at first. Cupping his balls and rolling them. Teasing under his foreskin. Lightly pumping him, until his cock was fully hard, precome weeping from the tip. Then the hand began to stroke him earnestly. Firm and tight. His hips rocked into the motion. He gasped, breathing hard, thighs tensing, back arching. It didn't take him long to come, biting his own lip, hands wound into the soft cord that bound his wrists.

He woke feeling sated, relaxed. A very good dream.

It happened several more times. He began to look forwards to it, the nights he slept dreamless seemed somehow emptier than they ever had. He craved the dreams, not merely for the release, but for the contact, the warm presence of another being. The sense of care. Of being tended to. Something he'd never felt before, but now that he had...

Very, very good dreams.

And so they went. Pleasant punctuations to otherwise dreamless sleep.

Until...

Last night was different. No, this morning was different. He woke from the dream, slowly, with the gentle laziness that it always left behind. He stretched, savouring the languor still blanketing his limbs. When he could no longer justify his indolence, he rose for breakfast, and a quick wash before a morning's workout. Things were not as he'd left them.

It was only the tiniest difference. A few items moved on his bedside table. Not quite where he'd left them. Something most would never even have noticed. But Fenris had refined paranoia to an art form. Paranoia kept him alive. Kept him free all these years. He began to wonder about these dreams.

He was angry at first, and frightened. How had someone managed to get so close, so easily? How much danger was he in? How long did he have? He searched his mansion, looking for something. Anything. Any hint that might tell him how all his defenses had been breached. The front door was trapped. He never used it. He came in through a window in the back. Only Hawke used the door. Hawke, who knew the traps, had _set_ the traps. But he didn't think it was Hawke. Why would she? She seemed more than content with the Dalish witch. No, Fenris had given up that hope long ago. So long it wasn't even a dull ache any longer. Just a wisp of regret.

Nothing. The thought that someone could breach his defenses so easily. Touch him, take him, kill him in his sleep...

But...

This had been going on for weeks. Why drag it out, why lure him into complacency? Why not kill him quickly? Enthrall him, take him. He was at their mercy. He was still here. Still free. He had been given only care. Only pleasure. Strange, but not unpleasant. Not dangerous. Not yet.

He waited, night after night. But how do you trap a dream? Someone who ghosted, rogue-like into his nights, bound him in tender fetters, spelled him with bliss. Still he waited. Anxiously, fearfully. Fear that the hands would return? Or fear that they would not?

Until they did. Touching. Soothing. Working muscles tense with ache from yet another errand of Hawke's. Bruised. Battered. Easing the days efforts til they slipped away like a morning's tide. Then becoming more sensual. Intimate. The questioning touch, as always, and his breathless consent. Working him from relaxation back to tension, hard and wanting, straining against bonds he could so easily break, and yet, he didn't. Just...didn't. Release that left him halfway between sleep and waking. He _was_ awake, though only just. He knew that now.

He felt the shift of the bed and felt himself enveloped from behind. A warm body, a hard erection, pressed into the small of his back. The tickle of chest and groin hair against his skin. Long legs. A broad chest. A man, then. A human. Arms wrapped around him, holding him close. Nothing more. An embrace. Fenris turned towards this other man, his covered eyes not hiding his confusion.

“Why? Why are you doing this?”

He felt himself turned slightly. Enough that soft lips could touch his own. Soft lips with a hint of scruff. A delicate kiss, faint and sweet that slowly turned into more. Into something deep and longing, something that took Fenris' breath away. An outpouring of need and passion, he could feel it in the marrow of his bones, singing through his flesh all the way to the tips of his toes. Yearning. Something Fenris understood. He knew longing, yearning, desperate desire; it had shaped his life in so many ways, some sweet and some twisted. He knew longing, need such as this was, something that ran deep, powerful. It stole his breath away. His breath, his heart, his very soul. And then it was gone.

The faintest track of a tear remained behind. Fenris wasn't sure which of them it belonged to. Then it was morning, and Fenris was no closer to understanding than he had been before.

Again, Fenris waited. Twitchy and irritable, moreso than usual, but no one commented. No one wondered. It was simply Fenris, and if his temper was shorter than usual, his manner impatient and brusque, his drinking more frequent, well, that was his business. If he wished to share his reasons, he would. Or he wouldn't. That was his way, as it was Isabela's way to flirt shamelessly, or Varric's to lie extravagantly. They were what they were. And Fenris was not good at waiting. 

All things come to those who he wait. Or so claimed Sebastian. In the dark of night, there were dreams less sweet, or no dreams at all. Still he waited. 

Until...

A body pressed warm behind him. Gentle kisses along the line of his neck, the curve of his ear. Delectable. Intoxicating. As dangerous as a flowertrap to a fly and just as hard to resist. Fenris was good at resisting. But not here. Not now. He didn't want to resist. Bonds he could tear, blinds he could brush away. He didn't. Wouldn't. Not when he could lean into a touch, press towards a kiss. Not when he yearned. Lips met his own, then tracked the whorls of lyrium on his chest. White roads on bronze ground. Traced to the root of him, then paused, as always. A moment's respite, a question. 

“Please,”

He was enveloped in warm heat. A clever tongue, dancing, sucking, coaxing. Hands that teased and cupped, squeezed and stroked. Pleasure blossoming, rippling through him like water, like lightning, like fire until he was burning with it, exploding. Shattered into a million shards of glass, blue-white.

Shuddering. Gasping. He leans back into a soothing embrace. Tremors fading and stilling as warm hands caress him, gently at first. Softly, then growing firmer, digging into muscles, kneading into flesh until sleep drags him under, as profound as any orgasm.

If he was calmer, less brittle than usual, no one commented. It was simply Fenris. He snarled and snapped. Or he didn't. It was his business. His company was more pleasant, and that was appreciated, but not remarked upon. If he wished to share he would. Or he wouldn't. 

Days passed, nights fell. Each evening, when Fenris slipped into his bed, he waited. And hoped. Touched his fingers to the headboard, wondering if he would wake with silken cords around his wrist, soft cloth binding his eyes. Warm hands caressing his flesh. Fenris was not good at waiting, but somehow the wait made it all the sweeter. Tonight? Would he dip down into blackness and then awaken only to the cold light of morning? Or would the darkness be warm, sweet. Heady with kisses and the touch of skin to skin. The faintest breath of a sigh. The trail of a wet tongue.

Not dreams, but not unpleasant. No. Not unpleasant at all.

The night came when the lips paused, pulled away. He was dripping with sweat, with saliva, with precome that welled at the head of his cock, engorged and throbbing, so close to fulfillment then suddenly pulled from the brink. 

“Please!” It wasn't a whisper or a breath, but a cry, pleading, begging, commanding. He was close to the edge, so close and he could see it, through eyes bound and he wanted. He yearned. 

A hand gripped his cock, firm, tight around the base. Legs astride his hips and he was enveloped. Tight, hot, bliss. Like he'd never felt before. He was being ridden and oh, _fasta vass_ , it was better than anything he'd imagined. His body reacted, hips moving into the rhythm, following the heat, the friction. It was incredible, unbearable. His body was a storm, building, roiling, thunder and fire waiting to break free. He rocked hard into the man on top of him, the trembling thighs clenching him. The angle changed. A hand braced the back of Fenris' neck. Tongue and lips chased the turning path of his ear. Fingertips teased his nipples. 

The storm broke and Fenris bit mindlessly into the soft flesh of a shoulder. Buried his shout in the taste of flesh as climax shocked his body. A breathy gasp, a faint moan, barely audible, the first voice in the darkness that hadn't come from Fenris' own throat and hot seed showered his torso. They lay together, trembling in the wake of their union. Sleep crept in and took him.

In the morning after the night, Fenris awoke. He was alone in his bed. Wrists unbound, sheets smooth and unmussed. Body cleaned. There was no trace of the nights pleasure. But it was no dream. Fenris was sure, absolutely sure, it was no dream.

It was a trap. It was a treasure. It was everything. It was.

He could have asked at any time. Demanded a name. Begged an identity. He could have. He just...didn't. It didn't seem to matter.

Until...

The mark on the abomination's skin. The fading bruise just above his collar. A faint whorl of green and yellow blossoming around a purple center. A hidden thing that slipped out of hiding in the middle of a fight. 

He was angry at first, and frightened. Furious at the magic he knew had been used on him. Ensorcelled into complacency. Tricked. Toyed with. And frightened because he wanted it. He had wanted it. He still wanted it. This creature that crept into his home, into his sleep and stole his dreams, stole his body, stole his flesh.

Stole his heart.

Fenris was done waiting. He turned on the abomination. 

“Why? Why did you do this?” Not a question, not a plea, but a demand, angry and betrayed. The abomination did not demean him by pretending not to understand. The look in the man's eyes was haunted.

“Would you have let me? Would you have wanted me?” Anders runs a hand his golden hair. Gentle hands, soothing hands. Fenris knows those hands. “It was nothing at first. Those bloody knots. The aches and pains I knew you had. The hitch in your spine.” Looking everywhere but at Fenris. “I just needed to help, to...but then, I just...I wanted...” His voice trailed off. His eyes met Fenris', and they were full of fear. Of pain. Of yearning.

“You used magic.”

“Just a little. I didn't mean...I'm sorry.”

“You took.”

“I asked.”

Fenris turned and walked away.

“I'm sorry.” Faint. Barely audible. Fenris didn't look back.

***

Anders didn't usually drink. But he had terrible dreams. Nightmares. Fenris hadn't spoken to him in days. Lately his darkspawn dreams had changed. The elf haunted him, claws and burning anger. Ripping into his skin, shredding his body, crushing his heart. Torn apart not by what he feared most, but what he loved most. 

Unpleasant. Very, very unpleasant.

So he sat nursing an ale, and Maker, the ale was foul, fouler than he remembered. Fenris' eyes pierced him over his hand of cards. Dark and forbidding. He felt himself shriveling under that gaze. He drank and lost money and wilted visibly until he couldn't bear it any longer. He felt dizzy. Unsteady. Like he was drugged. Or enthralled. He'd forgotten how to drink, it seemed. But not how to want. And he wanted. Oh, he wanted.

Time to go. Back to Darktown, into the damp and the echoing quiet. To wrap himself in sleep and sorrow. And nightmares.

But tonight was different. He woke slowly, not the sudden slap of waking he was used to, but a gentle rise to the surface of consciousness. Justice was quiet, still swimming in the deeps. His arms were bound above his head, his eyes covered. He was naked. Someone was in the room with him.

He could _feel_  the smirk as a dark, wine-roughened voice tickled his ear.

“My turn.”

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> updated to include this artwork I commissioned from lolbatty:https://www.patreon.com/lolbatty [](http://s1193.photobucket.com/user/zillah1199/media/DA/1252872323362259192.png.html)


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